


The Musician

by orange____slices



Category: Original Work, The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: Death is a person, just has something like its Death, this really isn’t about the book thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange____slices/pseuds/orange____slices
Summary: Sometimes, Death has favorites.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	The Musician

I saw Him a total of four times. The first was buried in the heart of winter; I was on my way to the victims of a freak car accident when he caught my eye. The sky was a murky, cool silver—uncertain and hesitant—as the sun perched on the horizon behind the blanket of grey. The clouds released pale white flakes, swaying in the wind hauntingly before they settled on the frozen ground.

A young, thin boy emerged from the door of an apartment building, swathed in a scarf and topped by a hat, leaving only his cherry nose to fare against the cold unassisted. His height was about that of a five-year-old, but his appearance was not. He was small and composed of knobbly knees and hair full of sunlight, but there were prominent bags that hung beneath his eyes. His eyes, which were a more exquisite amber than gold itself, were bleary and covered long, delicate lashes that cast dramatic shadows across his pale, freckled cheekbones. One of his small hands gripped a black violin case that softly bumped against his thigh.

What caught my attention, however, had been his gait, the way he held himself. The boy trudged his way to the cracked cement of the sidewalk alone, parentless. His steps were sluggish like mud and contained none of the innocent bubbliness a child ought to have; it was as if he were carrying something far heavier than wood and fabric. He walked like an old war veteran who’d seen things a young boy wasn’t meant to see.

-

It was several years later, early morning of a day on the cusp of spring, when I saw Him again, and the sky was a warily reluctant blue. The boy—knees less knobbly, hair no less radiant—rested inside the warm cab of his father’s old truck, protected from the nipping chill. Hazy sunlight painted his pale freckled face as he tipped his head back against the headrest, one hand on the wheel and the other on the worn, black leather seat. Old jazz drifted from the stereo, flooding the interior of the car with warm familiarity.

He stared tiredly at the large glass doors of the recital hall as he inhaled the lingering scent of tobacco and peppermint that was still left over from the car’s previous owner. Ignoring the lead ball of nerves that resided in his stomach, he gripped the door handle.

The air hung heavy as he heaved himself out into the damp cold, one hand supporting himself on the door, the other dragging his violin behind him. He stood and closed his golden eyes, trying to relax and just felt the cool air fill his tired lungs.  
I watched him, curious. I knew it was wrong, of course, but this boy of sixteen, perhaps, was walking into a recital hall completely alone. Where were his parents? His friends? I was bound to be intrigued. I slowly crept my way to the doors, contemplating the importance of my “duty” versus my curiosity.

I stepped into the auditorium made of sweat and breath and flesh. The boy stood on the stage, fingers poised on the wood of his instrument and his bow resting delicately on the strings. He looked so small and so insignificant in comparison to the vast crowd, and he didn’t seem nearly relevant enough to warrant a packed amphitheater. However, with the first swift movement of the bow on the string, the stuffy, uncomfortable space appeared to resonate with life. His music itself was an artist, painting a vision of sun and wind and joy.

He played an hour-long program filled with sorrow and light and the sea, thunderous applause erupting after each piece.

The thought of leaving never crossed my mind.

-

By the time I saw Him next, he was a world-renowned musician. Known as a revolutionary in the world of modern classical music, he changed the lives of every single person who listened to him perform. I’d heard a whisper of reverence, a rumor of a man who could paint life with his music.

I was lurking in the shadowy corner of a hospice room that reeked of death, waiting to gather the frail, silver-haired man in the bed. Imagine my surprise when a man with familiar eyes full of honey and hair weaved from sunlight appeared, filling the doorway. He was a man of white and gold, with a smattering of freckles over his pale, angular features, eyes like pools of liquid amber, and hair like strands of lemon. In one hand, he gripped the same case I’d seen him with years before, worn with age and use.

He stood like he was ready to flee, walking forward with weary, cautionary steps as he approached the disabled, dying man. He offered a weak smile as he sat next to the bed, despair evident in the lines of his face. The man struggled to speak. “Play me something happy,” he seemed to say, his words barely a rumor riding on his frail breath. The boy—now a man, I suppose—nodded, fighting to restrain the tears that threatened to spill.

He lifted the delicate instrument, closing his eyes, and weaved a picture with the music. He handled the notes with the care a mother reserves for her child: as if they were as fragile as eggshells. As he swayed gently with the movement of his bow, he filled the room with resonating sounds—painting an intricate feeling of sunlight and butterflies and honeysuckle.

The man laid still, a soft, content smile resting on his lips as I gathered him in my arms—they hardly ever come standing—and carried him away with me.

-

The last time I saw Him was to collect him, and I could just feel the resounding sorrow that would shake the music world. He was old and decrepit now, thin with his skin hanging off his bones, and his hair of sunlight had faded to a shock of wispy white. But, even though he looked devastatingly close to death, those bones had yet to fail. His gold eyes were radiant, and his feet were still planted solidly in life.

I walked into his studio, watching as the copper light from the sunset flooded the room with warmth, just as his bow floated across the string for a final, hauntingly beautiful note. He slowly lowered the instrument and set it into the still sturdy black case, despite the years and years of use. He sat on the floor next to it, comfortably resting his hand on its top, fingers splayed.

He was one of the few that stood to greet me; a knowing smile possessed his features as I guided him away.

And I mourned.

**Author's Note:**

> This told from the perspective of Death, personified—the one who collects the souls. Vaguely inspired by The Book Thief’s version of Death.
> 
> Please leave a comment and/or kudos if you’d like. Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Unbeta’d


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